


The Problem is You

by Ponderosa



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The Unit
Genre: Black Male Character, Canon Character of Color, Crossover, Dopplegangers, Hook-Up, Infidelity, Kink Meme, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Same Performer in Different Roles, Substitution, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme Fill for the prompt: Stacker takes a night off and nurses a drink at the bar when he sees someone who looks exactly like Herc. things happen.</p><p>The man’s almost as tall as Jonas, and between the two of them they fill the narrow hall. He doesn’t spare a glance to the press of Mack’s hand on his chest and he doesn’t give any ground. He looks straight into Mack’s eyes, threat assessment and something more. “No problem,” he says, and Mack’s eyebrows raise to learn he’s a Brit. Most folks lucky enough to be born on the Atlantic side stayed there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem is You

**Author's Note:**

> Substitution fucks. Awww yisss. No sad endings though. There is a brief moment of Mack/Chuck that's played for laughs, and Stacker's language is a little more rough than presented in the movie, but he's out of uniform and at a bar, so I hope it works!
> 
> Thank you goes to autoschediastic for the cheerleading and once-over.

“He’s moving,” Mack says, and downs the last of his beer. “I’ll be back in two shakes.” He pats Grey on the shoulder and slides off his stool to cut through the crowd. It’s busy for the middle of the week, but even this far inland when a big one goes down people like to go out and celebrate.

He intercepts the guy near the pisser. The hallway is close, decently lit by strings of lights shaped like chili peppers, and quiet enough that Mack doesn’t need to raise his voice when he stops the guy and says, “I need to know if we’ve got a problem here.”

The man’s almost as tall as Jonas, and between the two of them they fill the narrow hall. He doesn’t spare a glance to the press of Mack’s hand on his chest and he doesn’t give any ground. He looks straight into Mack’s eyes, threat assessment and something more. “No problem,” he says, and Mack’s eyebrows raise to learn he’s a Brit. Most folks lucky enough to be born on the Atlantic side stayed there.

“You sure?” Mack eases up on the pressure, gives the guy an opening by slinging a pointed glance back towards the main room. “I ask, because you’ve been eye-fucking me and my buddies all night long and this ain’t the right kind of bar for that.”

“Correction: I’ve been eye-fucking you, not your friends, and more’s the pity, ain’t it.” His stance says he’s ready for trouble and knows how to dish it out, but it hardly shows in his casual nod towards the door that’s so covered in graffiti it’s almost impossible to tell what color it started as. “Now, unless you plan to join me in the gents--but as you’ve said, this ain’t the proper sort of bar for that--you can go back to your friends and your cheap beer and leave me be.”

Mack licks his lip and scrapes it clean, chuckles softly as he retreats a step and reassesses the situation from head to toe. The man’s fearless, all control and poise, and not the sort that comes tightly-wound and ready to explode. Fucking other guys wasn’t usually his thing, but the heat in those eyes said that yeah, he wanted a piece of Mack and wanted it bad. With all the ladies that’ve been dropping numbers on the man’s table all night, it’s more than a little flattering, and there’s always something that gets to him deep down being skin to skin with someone who carries an equal amount of body mass. “Sorry, buddy,” Mack says, and backs off entirely. “My mistake. When you’re done in there, how about I buy you one of those cheap beers to make up for all this. Might be the wrong kind of bar, but could be the right kind of night.”

Turns out the guy’s name is Stacker, and turns out that both Grey and Hector had recognized him--Jaeger pilot, or used to be, stationed over in Tokyo before coming stateside--and the two assholes were hoping the guy would drop Mack like a Category 1. Mack’s still laughing to the point of wheezing when Marshal Stacker fucking Pentecost comes bellying up to the bar next to them and takes the beer straight from his hand. Hector gives the guy a little salute and raises his glass in a toast.

Stacker toasts back, his attention swiveling to Mack like it had been since the team had staggered into this shitty-ass bar. “So I take it you know who I am, then.”

“I do now,” Mack says, signalling for another round. He props his elbows on the bar top, feels a little slutty and a little turned on with the way Stacker’s gaze slides right beneath his collar. The guy doesn’t even try and hide it, but then, they wouldn’t be here if he had. There probably aren’t many things that Stacker Pentecost wants that he doesn’t get. “I take it you’re in town for the summit.”

Stacker lifts one long finger off the glass and gestures. “Your friends, they’re the ones who recognized me, aren’t they.” The right side of his mouth quirks when the pair of them start laughing again. He puts the glass to his mouth and drains half the pint in one go. “Did they tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Who it is I mistook you for.”

“Fuck off, not that Australian.” Mack winces. He hears it every so often, usually when he bothers to shave and his hair’s growing out from a fresh buzz. “Even a guy like you’s a starfucker, huh? Have you seen the papers? You really want to stick your dick in that hot mess?”

“Presumptive of you to know what I want without bothering to ask first. And the man’s a colleague, so watch your fucking tongue.”

Grey’s shoulder nudges against Mack’s, the amusement pouring off him. “Looks like you might get your ass kicked after all.”

Stacker looks past Mack to say, “Cover your ears, fellas, if you’re shy,” and he sets his glass down before he cozies up to Mack so close that his lips brush against Mack’s ear. His arm presses up against Mack’s, and he doesn’t lower his tone by much as he starts up again with, “Let’s straighten a few things out: First, I don’t carry a goddamn scorecard with the names of other Rangers on it, but if you read the gossip rags than you know that him and me, well we got a history you might say. And second--” Now he drops his volume just a touch, and Mack notices straightaway how his accent slips and gets rougher still. “Second, if it categorizes _me_ as a hot mess to want to get fucked into the floor by a cocky ginger bastard who resembles my friend and colleague--resembles more than a fair amount, I might add--well then you’ve got a juicy bit of gossip to go home with and a decision to make.”

Eyebrows glued to his hairline, Mack’s left speechless. “History, huh,” he manages finally. In his peripheral he catches Grey and Hector making themselves scarce. Hector taps his watch and gives a thumbs up. “Do you want to elaborate on that?”

“I most certainly do not.“

“Fair enough.” Mack smooths a hand over his mouth. It’s not really that hard of a call to make. Sure, it’s a little disappointing to know that Stacker only wants on his dick because he could pass as some PPDC hot-head’s stunt double, but on the other hand the phrase _fucked into the floor_ pricks his ears up. He turns the idea over in his head a few times before twisting around to leave some cash under his glass. He nods towards the back of the bar. “Follow me. Name’s Mack, by the way.”

No one even notices when he leads Stacker through a swinging door marked _employees only_ , and down into a stairwell that’s lit by only a single light down at the bottom.

“Stockroom,” Mack says before Stacker has to ask. “Should be empty for a while, they just hauled up a couple of kegs.”

“You got a key?”

Mack grins and pulls out a kit to pick the lock. “Don’t need one.”

Inside, a bare bulb on a chain reveals a long, narrow room bracketed by wire racks that go all the way to the ceiling. Boxes upon boxes cram the shelves, with more of them piled up on the floor and leaving a crooked path between them. Mack ushers Stacker in and closes the door, flips the lock, and drags a crate full of vodka bottles in front of the jamb for good measure. Stacker gives the room a once-over and shrugs out of his light jacket, leaves it flung over one of the shelves as he moves deeper into the stockroom.

Mack spares a moment to admire the way the man’s body moves under his t-shirt, the way his broad shoulders narrow down to a pretty fine ass and a long, long set of legs. “I’ve got a rubber, but if you want it in the ass and not the mouth, there’s nothing in my pockets to make it easy for you,” Mack says, following behind to where boxes give way to dusty stacks of chairs and crates labeled as holiday decorations. Tucked in the very back is a pool table with the corner pocket busted.

“‘S alright,” Stacker says. “Bit of spit’ll do me.”

“It’s your ass,” Mack murmurs as he takes hold of Stacker’s hips and slots himself up against the guy’s back. He grinds the bulge of his dick against the seat of Stacker’s jeans and closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the friction and the notable change in Stacker’s breathing. If he reached around to cop a feel, he’d probably find the guy hard already. “You gonna complain if I bend you over that table instead of do you face to face?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good, but here--” Mack stops dry-humping Stacker’s ass and hauls on a cracked back bar mirror that’s peeking out from under a stack of faded posters. He props it up on next to the pool table on some crates, angling it enough that he’ll have a nice view of the way their bodies line up together--and yeah, Stacker’s hard all right. “Let’s double the fun.”

Stacker meets his gaze in the mirror. The tug of his smile says whatever that history is he’s carrying around is either a bittersweet one or not all that far in his past. “It’s uncanny,” he admits as he braces a hand on worn green velvet and tugs open his pants with the other.

“So enjoy it,” Mack says, stripping off his shirt. The air is cool down here and his nipples go instantly hard. In the reflection Stacker’s eyes are glued to him as he fishes the condom out of his pocket and holds it between his teeth while undoing his belt and zip. He widens his stance to keep his pants from sliding down past his thighs, and jerks himself a few times until he’s hard enough to roll the rubber on.

Mack runs his hands under Stackers tee, pushes it up to where his shoulderblades cast sharp shadows across the valley of his spine. Dragging his palms back down, Mack presses his thumbs into the divots just above the meat of Stacker’s ass. “Here’s the deal--” Mack says, his hands spreading wide before clawing in to Stacker’s sides and edging forward to let his dick ride along the guy’s crack. “You want to pretend I’m your buddy while I fuck you, that’s fine, but I’m not calling you sweetheart or whatever pet names you had going and, hell, in ten minutes you’re not even going to remember your own name.”

The sound Stacker makes--hardly more than an exhale but so full of lust--is more satisfying than fresh laundry on a Sunday morning, and Mack grins as he spreads the guy open and spits straight on him. He eases back until the head of his cock slips down, nudges right up against the tight clench of Stacker's hole. “Now let’s see how easy you open up, big guy.”

Mack doesn’t do a thing to stop the moan building up in his chest as the head of his dick wedges into Stacker’s body. It’s easy enough, and as fat as his dick is, he could still probably slide all the way in riding that little bit of spit and Stacker wouldn’t say a thing, but Mack would rather have him feel bruises tomorrow, not a sharp burn the next few times he takes a shit. Mack dredges up another mouthful, watches it glisten as it drips down Stacker’s skin until it meets the shine of latex sheathing Mack’s dick.

“Oh yeah, you love it up the ass,” Mack says, and peels a hand away from Stacker’s hip to do a decent job of smearing his dick wet before pushing the tip in again. He alternates between watching where his cock inches into Stacker--marveling at the control the guy has over his own body, muscle dilating as Mack slides into him--and his own reflection, the light from the bare bulb shining bright on his shoulders. He raises his arm and pops a bicep, giving himself an uninterrupted view of the flat of his abs and his hips pushing forward as he bottoms out. “Look at that, easy as apple pie.”

And Stacker’s looking all right; he’s eating up their reflection like a man starving. Mack drops his arm, gives Stacker’s ass a slap that ripples flesh, and follows up with a series of thrusts hard enough to make it wobble like jelly all over again. It’s been a while since he’s been home or gotten laid--multiply that by ten since the last time he’d fucked another guy, and back then he’d been the one bent over the table and sucking air in through his teeth. There’s something to be said about not feeling like he needs to hold back, and Mack leans down, smothers a grin in the center of Stacker’s back and gives it to the guy in short, shallow bursts that drive him up onto his toes.

It’s been nearly as long as the last time he took it up the ass that he’s done someone the favor, and even with a rubber on, the grasping heat tight along the whole length of him cuts Mack’s breath short. He slows down to make sure he’s gonna last and leave an impression that goes beyond having a pretty face. He starts pulling back as far as he can on each stroke without risking popping loose and fucks in deep until he’s grinding his short and curlies against Stacker’s hot skin. That gets Stacker going real good, pushing back like maybe he has something he wants to ask for. He twitches at the light brush of a thumb against the jutting curve of his hipbone and again when Mack turns things a little lazier. Maybe this is how his pilot friend fucks, or maybe Stacker’s just impatient and can’t take it slow.

Mack considers this as he runs a hand all the way up and all the way down Stacker’s side. Besides being almost the same height and just as wide in the shoulders, Stacker looks nothing like Jonas, but he’s got the same air about him--the one that says he’s a natural leader; that he might be good at taking orders but he’s even better at laying out the game plan; that he’s dealt with a whole lot of bullshit but he’ll hold his cards close to the vest even in the most trying of circumstances. After so many years in the field he can sense when Jonas is pushed to the limits of his patience, can tell when the wind’s gonna change, but even with cataloging the shapes of Stacker’s mouth as Mack fucks into him, twenty minutes in a dingy basement isn’t going to crack the code written into the long body stretched out and gorgeous in front of him.

The sparse curls of hair on Stacker’s thighs tickle against his palm, and Mack gives his leg a squeeze. “How’s your dick doing? You gonna want a reach-around?”

Stacker plants his hands more firmly on the velvet, and it’s like it takes him a moment to find his voice, but when he says, “Fuck me hard enough for long enough and I won’t need one,” the words claw right past Mack’s skin to light a fire in his guts. So that’s what he’s been begging for with his body: hard and deep and don’t stop.

“Damn, Stacks, I’ve been reading you wrong all night,” Mack says, and means it like a compliment. He takes hold of Stacker’s hips, palms fitting carefully in place like the wings of bone are handholds made just for him.

“Thought you weren’t going to trot out the pet names.”

“Shit happens.” Mack doesn’t give it to him the way he wants it, not yet. There’s a part of him that’s naturally curious about why a guy like Stacker is this desperate, but it’s none of his business and not his problem either. Getting a rise out of someone who seems like it’d take an airstrike to make him flinch though, that’s hard to resist. “If I do it again you gonna go all tight? Clench up all sweet on my dick before I fuck you into a sloppy mess?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you moving again, then there’s only one way to find out,” Stacker says, a little breathless. He wets his fingers, reaches back to slick his hole up again, fingers dragging over the meat of his ass before his hand drops back to curl over the wooden lip of the table.

“Well, Stacks, if your friend never actually had a go at you, he’s missed out on one very fine piece of ass.” Mack grinds in deep again, eyes going half-lidded as Stacker actually does clench up tight around him. He flashes a smile at the mirror and uses the heel of his hands to push Stacker forward then guide him back with his fingertips. Stacker takes the cue, fucking himself on Mack’s cock and it’s not long before the heat smoldering deep in Mack’s belly makes it impossible not to fuck counterpoint. 

“You can make some noise, you know,” Mack says, as the hard slap of their bodies fills the small space with sound. “No one’s gonna hear you down here except for the rats.”

Stacker keeps quiet though, a grunt and a groan here and there, but nothing like the sound Mack lets loose when the pace turns frenzied, when it’s all wild fucking and the reflection in the corner of his eye that looks like something that should be on video. When Stacker’s hands both snap to the lip of the table and his eyes screw shut, Mack gives him that reach-around anyway, takes a backhand grip to jerk him and feel the orgasm Mack fucks out of him shudder and pulse through his whole body.

Stacker’s spine dips and he feels ready to drop, and a thrill zips along Mack’s skin that he’s fucked a man boneless. But Mack’s not done yet, and he shoves Stacker forward, pins him to the table with a hand on his shoulder and fucks him a good few minutes longer. He loses all the air in his lungs when he comes, the sharp swift intake of breath that follows stinging like needles even as pleasure slams through him. When the roaring in his skull fades, he hears Stacker’s low moan, and it sends an aftershock up his back that leaves his own legs feeling a little weak in the knees.

“Well, buddy I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve gone a little cross-eyed,” Mack says, reluctantly peeling himself off Stacker. He strips the condom from his dick and doesn’t bother to tie it before flinging it under the table where a bunch of other assorted trash has accumulated. He takes a deep breath as he hitches his pants back up, a low buzz of satisfaction going through him at the way Stacker moves as he does the same.

It takes Stacker a little longer to collect himself, but once he does it’s like there’s not a proverbial hair out of place. He perches on the edge of the table, and between the way his shirt clings to his body and the straight cut of his jeans, he looks like he ought to be on a magazine cover. Hell, Mack realizes, if he jockeyed in the early days, he’s probably been on more than one. Stacker’s eyes are only the slightest bit heavy as they fix on Mack, but they’re still sizing him up. The guy slaps some dust off the front of his shirt and pants, and the outward calm slips just a touch when he grabs up Mack’s shirt and hesitates for half a second before tossing it over.

The wrinkles ease after a hard shake, and Mack enjoys the heat still simmering in Stacker’s gaze as he pulls the tee back on. He goes to unblock the door, and glances over his shoulder as he kicks the crate back into the dust-free void that marks where it belongs. “Hey, if you’re interested, I’ll buy you another drink. A couple more rounds and I might consider a real bed and some tonsil hockey.”

Stacker’s bark of laughter cuts through the room sharp and sudden like rifle fire. Mack can tell he’s damn tempted even before he pulls a face and lets a sigh hang heavy in the air. His hand curls over his skull, rubbing at the crown as another breath hisses through his teeth. “Fuck-- You have no idea how much I’d like to say yes.”

“So say yes.” Mack holds the door open with his heel. “I’m not asking you to go steady.”

“No.... No, I’m done picking at scabs for the night. Sorry.” Stacker doesn’t look like he’s planning on budging anytime soon. If he wants a drink, there’s plenty of it around him.

Mack knocks off a wave with a couple fingers. “Your call. You don’t owe me any apologies.”

A quiet, “Not you, no,” follows Mack up the stairs and Mack shakes his head; if the guy wants to sit around and brood, so be it.

Sound crashes around him as he makes his way back into the barroom. The place has gotten even more crowded and a whole lot louder; someone’s queued up the jukebox instead of the house music that’d been piped through the speakers when they’d first gotten here. He’s winding around a table full of women slamming down cocktails swimming with booze when someone catches him by the elbow. It’s not Stacker. It’s the other Australian, fresh-faced and barely legal--the one who ends up on the news every so often with soundbites that rile up the brass. “Tabs open. What are you drinking?” he says, and Mack can see the moment his brain starts firing signals that something’s wrong.

“How about you take your paws off me first.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“Could be if you ask nice. Especially when you’re the one buying, sweetcheeks.”

The kid pulls his hand away like he’s been burned and staggers back a step. Mack shrugs; so, rumors about pilot pairs aside, not everyone wanted to hop in the sack with his less handsome twin. He’s about to excuse himself when the kid’s gaze slides past him, eyes flickering, and then a hand comes down on his shoulder, fingers digging in hard at his collarbone. Mack grinds his teeth and drops his shoulder to shake the hold. He pivots on his heel, ready to take a punch or land one.

“Chuck, you all right? Is there a problem here?” his mirror-image asks him.

It takes a lot to knock him off his game, but this does it. He recovers quick--so does the other guy--but an eerie feeling creeps up his neck. It’s like coming face to face with his own ghost. “Camera really does add ten pounds,” he says, stomping down on the odd flutter in his guts.

“So my co-pilot there likes to tell me. I take back what I said. Is he giving _you_ any trouble?” Eyes just as blue as his scan his features. ”Christ knows he gives me enough lip.”

Mack catches the kid’s scowl before the tipsy flirts at the table blow kisses and turn it back towards a smile. “Friend, all the trouble is downstairs, I think.”

“Come again?”

It’s not his place and not his buttons to push, but this night’s been weird enough. What’re the odds? Maybe saying anything will make circumstances worse for Stacker, or they’ll make them right, but either way the one thing Mack would lay money down on is that if you’re a not a weirdo, there’s only one reason you’d be fucking someone who reminds you of-- “Your boyfriend,” Mack says. He points at where the door with the _employees only_ sign is still open a crack. “The guy’s a remarkable lay, but trust me, he misses you.”

Hansen--the name’s stitched to his vest--turns around in time to see Stacker emerge from the door. They both freeze, and then Hansen’s dodging chairs to go towards the guy. Stacker looks pained, then angry, then he’s staring only at Hansen’s mouth and has a hard grip on the man’s neck.

“This is going to be interesting,” Mack says to Chuck who’s watching the whole thing go down with a paleness in his cheeks. He blocks the kid when he looks like he’s ready to charge over there and butt his nose in as the two exchange words, and Mack notices that his chest reads Hansen too. Well fuck, so they’re the ones who are father and son. He feels a twinge of guilt for a moment before it’s gone like a fart in a stiff wind. “Sit tight, pal. Let Mommy and Daddy make up.”

“What the fuck is going on? Oh, God, are they--”

“Seems like. Figured it was either gonna be that or someone was about to get decked.”

“Is-- Is the Marshal kissing my dad?”

Mack claps Chuck on the arm while squeezing past him, and says, “If it makes you feel any better, pretty sure your old man’s the one on top.”

“Oh, God--!” Chuck says again, his face screwing up with disgust, and yet he dogs Mack’s heels all the way to the bar.

“How about I buy you a couple rounds, Chuck. You look like you need it.” Mack signals the bartender as Chuck lines up next to him and very pointedly doesn’t look towards the back of the room. At this rate, Mack is going to get really accustomed to people other than his wife stare at him like his face is a puzzle. “Didn’t think you headcases got much in the way of surprises.”

“We don’t. It’s hard to keep secrets,” Chuck says. He looks at the beer the bartender slides in front of him like it’s a pint full of salvation. “And you ought to buy all the rounds. The shit that’s going to end up in my head now.”

“Some things, you just can’t unsee.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Chuck makes another face. “Jesusfuck, though this explains a lot.”

Mack raises his own glass. “To old friends and familiar faces.”


End file.
